


Hightown Subterfuge

by ceresilupin



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/F, F/M, M/M, Mabari!, Team as Family, The Hawke Family, WIP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 01:56:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3231905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceresilupin/pseuds/ceresilupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone needs something from Marian Hawke. This includes closet-submissive Knight-Captain Cullen, grumpy elf Fenris, swashbuckler extraordinaire Isabela, and apostate martyr Anders. Hawke struggles to give everyone what they need, while also protecting her family and adapting to her new life in Hightown. If she loses herself in the process, well. It's not like it's the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hightown Subterfuge

**Author's Note:**

> This is currently a WiP -- I started it years ago, before we knew anything about DAI (or Cullen). I came back to it a few weeks ago and am in the process of finishing it up. This is a first for me, as it includes some BDSM and D/s, and as little plot as possible. Seriously, anytime I start to write in plot, I stop myself. Trying to keep this one entirely character-driven.
> 
> Both of the twins survived the trip to Kirkwall and the Deep Roads -- no one is a Grey Warden, a Templar, or a Circle Mage. There's no particular reason for this, other than I love family dynamics and I wanted to explore what it would be like if the Hawke family really made it to Hightown.
> 
> Trigger/squick warning for lots of D/s and some unhealthy relationships -- not in the first chapter, but later. No one is outright abusive to anyone, but they are all messed up people and it shows. If you want more specific warnings, comment and let me know.

Of all the things Marian had expected to happen today, her mother leaning against the open door and archly announcing, “I believe your _suitor_ is here to see you,” was surely among the least.

To be honest, she had been expecting something more along the lines of a giant spider infestation, or human bodies stored in what was left of the great manor’s pantry. In short – long before Gamlen had eroded the family’s fortunes completely, he decided that he had no need for cooks. Or maids, or butlers, or anything but liquor and whores. He had sent the family’s small army of servants packing with little notice, not knowing or not caring that he was beggaring not just them, but their families as well.

It was one more disgrace on top of a long list; those elves and humans had served the Amells for generations, and had been respected in Hightown as only prim, proper, and devoted servants could be. To fire them so peremptorily had been a shameful deed in the eyes of practically everyone, and in Kirkwall – where you couldn’t swing a stunted cat without hitting two sides of an argument, and then some – that was really saying something. It did more to tarnish their reputation than living in Lowtown ever had.

At least, it had done more to Gamlen’s reputation. Marian was determined that it not drag the rest of them down as well.

In any event, the insulted servants had not deigned to clean out the pantry or the meat room before leaving. It had been some time before Gamlen, the drunken aimless heir living along in his huge abandoned home, had noticed the smell and came to investigate. Between his natural apathy and the rats, the food areas had already been a disaster _before_ he handed the mansion over to the slavers in order to save his worthless hide. They had done nothing to improve matters during their stay.

Marian shoveled some more garbage into a barrel – she already had a stack of other barrels waiting to go out on the garbage cart – and set it aside. “A _suitor?_ I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mother.”

Leandra simply wafted out, ignoring her daughter’s irritated huff as she followed. They found Bethany waiting outside the kitchen, apparently unwilling to venture inside. “I don’t have a suitor,” Marian reminded her sister. “Do I?” Great, now she sounded like _Merrill._

Bethany sidled closer. “It’s Ser Cullen,” she hissed, glancing over her shoulder as if she thought his natural manners had deserted him and he had come to eavesdrop. “The Templar.”

“Mother! I am not—“ At a frantic glance from Bethany, Marian lowered her volume. “I am not courting – or being courted – or _whatever_ – by a Templar. Mother! For Andraste’s sake!”

Up went Leandra’s eyebrows. “He seemed very eager to see you,” she said, in the gently remonstrative way that only she could manage. “And he introduced himself to me very politely, and very nervously. It’s a sign, dear. A mother learns to recognize these things.”

“He’s polite to everyone! He’s a Templar knight! They probably teach politeness along with, I don’t know, hair-raising paranoia and torture techniques!” To her slight shame, she found herself mimicking Bethany and peeking towards the foyer, just in case he might overhear. “What on earth gave you the idea – no, don’t tell me. We don’t have time for this.”

Marian turned her back decisively, fished her bow and quiver off the kitchen floor, and began stripping off her breeches and boots. “Bethany, give me your trousers.”

They had not worn good clothes in order to clean slaver refuse from their new home, and so Bethany’s breeches were in much the same shape as her own. On the other hand, Bethany hadn’t been stomping around in a midden all morning. Her sister hesitated, but saw the sense in it and obeyed.

“My boots won’t fit you,” she reminded, and then pulls a face. “Does this mean I have to wear _your_ trousers? Or must I walk around half-naked?” She held them up and sniffed in their direction gingerly.

Leandra moved between them and the distant foyer, a conspirator’s watchful eye on the corridor mouth. “There’s a servant’s stair to the upstairs rooms, dear. I’ll show you.”

The trousers were a bit snug – that must have been why Marian had given them to Bethany in the first place – but they fit. Her calves were left bare. She ducked her head to check her hair in the distorted reflection of a dented serving tray, until Bethany turned her away from it and finger-combed her hair for her.

“How does it look?” Marian asked, not sure she wanted to know. She envied Bethany’s perfect curls, and not for the first time.

“Disheveled, but it’s a good look for you,” Bethany murmured. With a glance at their mother’s back, she loosened the laces on Marian’s top and giggled as Marian waved her away then adjusted her breasts flamboyantly. “Are you going to strap on your quiver, or—“

“Oh, I’m just carrying it around,” Marian said airily. “In my own home. You know how it is.” At Bethany’s openly skeptical stare, she added, “All right, I know it’s a pathetic excuse. Hopefully he won’t ask, and I won’t have to find a polite way to say _I_ _’m keeping it close in case I have to shoot you_. Mother, go ahead and take Bethany on up. You might want to warn Anders and Merrill to stay upstairs. Ask Carver and Fenris to carry some furniture down, just in case I need backup.” She paused and eyed Bethany’s long legs. “Oh, and do make sure you put some trousers on, Beth. You know. Eventually.”

Bethany rolled her eyes. “ _Yes,_ Sister, I _was_ planning on it.”

Leandra’s sharp eyes noticed the extra cleavage, but aside from the slight thinning of her lips, she made no comment. She had enacted such charades herself, drawing Templar attention away from her husband and daughter, and besides, both she Marian know where the line was. Let them look, never let them touch. No matter how much of their blood you had to spill. _No matter how far we have to run afterwards._

That resolve had never been tested, at least not for Marian. She suspected that she wouldn’t find it as inflexible as she might if their positions were reversed. Not that she was going to let Leandra know that.

“Be careful,” is all she said, guiding Bethany towards the kitchen. Bethany was already pinching her nose in anticipation. “Tell him I went to fetch some refreshments.”

Marian glances at the war-torn pantry. “And oh, what a joy that will be. I’ll, um, give him fair warning.”

Funny, how alike Bethany and Mother look when they make that face at her. She fixed a bright smile on her face, adjusted her top one last time, and sauntered off to meet the waiting Templar.

~

Her mother had seated Cullen in a chair near the fireplace. The foyer, currently their staging area as they cleared out a decade’s worth of junk and refuse, was a bit crowded. The area near the fire, where Leandra was sorting smaller items and preparing buckets of soapy water for the younger people to use, was the cleanest spot.

Cullen came to his feet when he saw her. “Serah Hawke,” he said, folding one arm in a courtly bow. Marian obediently brightened her smile, and wondered frantically (but hopefully discreetly) if she was supposed to curtsey. “It’s good to see you well. The progress you have made here is . . . astonishing.”

Marian’s gaze followed his around the room, over the tiled floor, the walls, and even the ceiling. “We tried to clean this room first,” she admitted, “for all that we’re cluttering it up currently. I had no idea the tiles were such a pretty blue color. I could barely see them before.”

His lip twitched. He had been one of many officials called upon to inspect the carnage after they were done killing slavers, and knew exactly what she meant. He regarded the tiles solemnly, past the metal-encased behemoths he called feet. “True. It is very – cerulean.”

“Oh, look at you, a scholar with it.” Marian tossed her bow and quiver onto an empty bench and dropped into the seat across from his. “Would you like anything to drink? Eat? Mother promised refreshments, but I should warn you, if they materialize, they will _not_ be attractive. I could probably go hunt down a deer for you before she gets back, if you’re truly hungry. It might even be a good deer.”

Cullen had automatically held his hands up in a warding gesture at her offer, even as he planted his armored rump back in his seat. At her joke, he half-laughed, a soft exhale more than anything else. “No, I – no, please don’t go to any trouble. Thank you.”

“And the deer thanks you,” Marian returned promptly, and mimicked his bow from earlier with a sitting one of her own. The conversation lulled briefly as they smiled at one another, until Marian regained her wits. “What brings you hear today, Ser Cullen? I hope I’m not being rude.”

“No, not at all.” Nervously, he looked up and around the room again, tracing the inlaid trim with his eyes. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I saw the carts outside and heard that you were moving in, and I wanted to say hello. And to meet the mother you spoke so highly of.”

Yes, she had talked Leandra up a bit, trading small talk about Hightown and the nobles, one Fereldan to another. “I’m sorry, I think we may have scared her off,” she admitted. “Now that she’s back in this dusty old pile of stone, she’s decided to take her hostess responsibilities even more seriously than before. She may not emerge until the house is clean and she’s hand-embroidered the proper array of gowns and napkins required for guests.”

Cullen cocked an eyebrow. “Gowns and napkins?”

“Or whatever the nobility requires. I’ve no idea.”

“Napkins, perhaps, but gowns . . . are probably not necessary.” Visibly nonplussed, he moved on. “Your mother mentioned that you are preparing to donate some of the furniture here to the Chantry.”

“Oh, yes, anything that’s salvageable.” Anders had first dibs on it for his clinic, however, an interesting tidbit she wasn’t planning to share. “The boys were sent upstairs to do the heavy lifting.”

His eyebrows rose. “Just them? Not you?”

“Ah, no, I was assigned to clean out the much more vital area of ‘kitchen’. We have to feed these men at some point, or we’re going to be in trouble.” Also, no one else had the guts to go in there after catching a whiff of the pantry, a fact she definitely shouldn’t bring up in polite conversation. “There was also some . . . disturbing equipment in the upstairs area. Where they kept the slaves,” she added, his to polite bafflement.

His quiet amusement faded, jaw tightening. “Yes, I can imagine,” he said grimly. “Do you need any assistance?”

Maker, but he was a fairytale character come to life. Was she sure Varric hadn’t created him in a book somewhere? “No, no, but thank you. Carver seems to be taking the whole thing rather personally. I would hate to ruin his fun.”

Cullen half-smiled, his chin dipping in shy acknowledgement. “It’s a noble thing that you’ve done here, Serah Hawke.” She might accuse him of making a pun about her new status, but he was always so earnest that it would probably embarrass him. “Not just reclaiming your family’s home and name, but evicting the slavers and freeing their captives.”

Marian propped her chin on her own palm. “Oh, that part was easy. I like freedom, freedom is fun. Freedom for everyone!” She mimed waving bobbles, cringing inwardly; oh dear, had that been too close to the dreaded mages-versus-templars topic, or was Anders poisoning her mind? It was getting so hard to tell.

“You did more than just free them,” he reminded her, his eyes steady on hers. “Finding them lodging, work, giving them coin—“

And now her face was coloring. Wasn’t her mother supposed to send her reinforcements? Where _were_ those blasted boys? “Just . . . spreading the wealth around,” she burbled. “Are you sure about those refreshments? I could fetch you some.”

Now he was definitely smiling at her, with enough liking that she wanted to squirm in her seat. “Let’s not bother the deer,” he demurred. It occurred to her belatedly that this conversation, an un-chaperoned woman with an unattached man, would be considered quite scandalous among the Hightown elite. Particularly when the woman in question was wearing men’s clothes, no boots, and a low-laced shirt. And was leaning forward somewhat to prop her chin on her hand, Maker!

Marian straightened hastily and fanned her face, hoping she looked casual. “Well, I hear they can be quite troublesome. All that kicking and whatnot. But if you insist.” She sighed woefully.

Cullen’s expression shifted rapidly between startled, regretful, and then embarrassed. He sat back as if just realizing how much he had leaned in.

“In any event,” he said, and cleared his throat. Marian fixed a smile on her face. “It must have been quite the battle, evicting the slavers. Although perhaps not for someone who was so successful in the Deep Roads.” His casual tone made this seem less like a man’s compliment of a woman and more like the careful, testy flattery that existed between wary friends. Or between rivals.

Or between enemies, which was what they are, even if he didn’t quite know it. Yet. “It was very sad for them,” Marian confessed, resting her hands on the arms of her chair and leaning back, crossing her legs. “We reclaimed the deed so quickly that they didn’t get word, and we _did_ have Guard-Captain Aveline with us. I’m afraid they thought we were here with a warrant, and panicked.” Another tragic sigh.

“It was well done, to move so quickly,” he said, not continuing her line of jest. “But it’s incredible that they were able to operate so freely, for so long. And just across the square from the Vicount’s Way! Kirkwall does _not_ permit slavery.” His voice was steely.

Marian rubbed her cheek idly, not really wanting to have this conversation. “It permits other things,” she finally said, somewhat shortly. “And to the moneyed types around here, I suspect everyone who’s not a noble looks alike. They probably couldn’t tell the difference between the slavers and the other low-life invaders.” Herself included among their number, of course.

“Not quite what Andraste meant, when she said all were equal in the eyes of the Maker,” he murmured, watching her closely.

She barked a laugh. “Although it would explain a lot if it was!”

His returning smile was strained. “Unfortunately,” he agreed.

She was saved from further comment – or some desperate attempt to un-insult the faith he had dedicated his life to – by a great clanging at the top of the stairs. She turned to see Carver and Fenris carting what looked like a bookcase down the stairs. She was relieved that her reinforcements were here at last, even if they did take a ridiculously long time about it. And pick a ridiculous piece of furniture to bring down. What, there weren’t any more bedframes lying about? That thing looked _heavy._

“And here the boys are,” Marian drawled. “Bringing more furniture for the Chantry donation fairy. Oh, look, Carver’s about to fall down the stairs! I’ll need a new younger brother, in that case.” She turned back to Cullen. “Are you submitting applications, Knight-Captain Cullen?”

He took his eyes from Fenris and Carver to smile at her. “To be the younger Hawke brother? I’m not sure I meet the qualifications.”

“Nonsense. All you have to do is be tall and extremely stupid; no one will be able to tell the difference.”

He choked a laugh. She wondered if she had just called him stupid, and if so, if he was going to comment on it. He just looked amused. “I’m not sure that I’m younger than you, actually. Isn’t that a requirement?”

“I’m twenty-six,” she told him, and batted her lashes.

“Twenty-three,” he admitted ruefully. His face was now quite red. “You seemed – never mind.”

“Don’t worry,” she reassured him. “All of us Hawkes seem younger than we are. You should see Carver’s toddler impersonation, it’s flawless! Much better than the squalling babe he does normally.”

Halfway down the stairs, Carver bellowed, “You know, I can _hear_ you, Sister!”

Marian bellowed back unrepentantly, “Are you sure? I can’t _quite_ hear you, Carver, yell louder! You’re all the way across the room! It’s a whole forty feet!”

Cullen leaned a bit away from her shout, grinning, and then popped up to help. “Watch your foot, that step is broken.” He stopped Carver with a hand on his back and then helped hold up the bookcase as he searched for steady ground. Carver didn’t bother to thank him, of course, just cursed vividly.

“Language, brother,” Marian chided, making no move to get up and help. Fenris, further up the stairs, held up his end with an expression of long-suffering.

With Cullen’s assistance, Carver could free a hand to flip her off. Cullen just grinned again, disconcertingly young and boyish, and then ended up helping them all the way into the outer foyer. The brave soldiers ambled back in after a few suspicious crashes, Cullen still smiling, Carver stomping and glaring, and Fenris dusting off his hands and inspecting the room.

“Your house is still a mess,” he informed her, in his usual gravelly rumble.

“Eh.” Marian shrugged one-shouldered, a sort of _what can you do?_ Fenris just shook his head. “Are you sure we can’t recruit you into our happy family, Knight-Captain? We have an abundance of bookshelves, apparently.” She eyed the foyer. Was the thing truly broken or not? Were they going to have to move it back into the library? Really, they _couldn_ _’t_ find anything else to bring down?

Carver fidgeted and grumbled, either because of the insult to him or because she wasn’t doing enough to usher the unwelcome Templar from their doorstep. Fenris watched the family by-play with the intensity he reserved for such things.

Cullen noticed it, of course, and declined. “I won’t infringe on any more of your time,” he said.

Sensing that the time for goodbyes was near, Marian pushed herself from her chair. Fenris’s gaze was diverted briefly to her, and then sheepishly away. She could see Carver rolling his eyes. After a surreptitious check to make sure her tits weren’t falling out, she took Cullen’s hand. “Not an infringement at all,” she said politely. “I hope to see you soon when we have more time to talk.”

“That is my wish as well.” He bowed over her hand, hesitated for the briefest of moments, and then added, “I think you will be a good influence in Hightown, Serah Hawke. I look forward to it.” Smiling again, this time quite enigmatically – and who knew Knight-Captain Cullen had ‘enigmatic’ in him? Surprises for everyone – he saw himself out. Carver shut the door behind him and glared at his sister pointedly.

“It took you long enough to get rid of him,” he accused.

“It took _you_ long enough to get down here,” she accused right back. “I can’t just _kick out_ the _shagging Knight-Captain,_ you bloody twerp! You don’t know the slightest thing about manners!”

He snorted, cooling off with unusual speed. “That,” he said, jerking a thumb at the absent Cullen and shaking his head, “had nothing to do with manners.”

Fenris shifted minutely. “He . . . desires you,” he rumbled.

Carver rolled his eyes again. “Gross.”

Marian crossed her arms. “Agreed,” she lied.

Fenris was unmoved. “He is a Templar,” he stated, the way he sometimes did, repeating the obvious in the way that said _you are clearly too stupid to understand_. Someday, Marian was going to find out who he learned that from, and punch them in the face. “You are hiding and guarding apostates. He will cause trouble for you – for us all, particularly when they break.” His scowl left little question about whom he met by ‘they’.

“Thank you, Ser Obvious,” she retorted, deciding to ignore the ‘break’ comment for the moment. “I don’t need you to tell me these things, you know!”

“You need _someone_ to tell them to you, apparently,” Leandra’s tart voice interjected. Marian groaned and turned to find that her friends – the whole shameless gaggle of them – had gathered on the landing, giving up hiding in order to heckle her instead. “That young man is quite besotted. Am I right?” she asked the crowd.

Isabela, damn her, had one elbow propped on Leandra’s shoulder, and was grinning, hip cocked. “Oh, yes,” she purred. “Quite right.”

Anders braced himself on the railing and glowered down her, like a god on high. “A _Templar,_ Hawke?”

Marian looked around for something to throw at him. “Oh, don’t you start with me! I don’t want to hear another of your lectures about the evils of the Circle. For one thing, you dunce, I agree with you! And for the other, Ialready know! Give me that book, Fenris, please.”

Fenris shook his head and took a pointed step away from the book.

Anders shifted his pose so that his elbows were resting on the railing, instead of his hands, turning conversation. “Templars are trouble,” he said, in lieu of ranting. “They’re never as cute as you’d think they’d be, once you get all that armor off. And they smell.” He wrinkled his nose at some memory.

“I hear they bite,” Varric rasped, grinning, and then went back to whatever he’d been doing before. Thank the Maker, Carver followed his example and stomped off after him.

“You mean they’re not all well-muscled, highly-repressed, junior sex gods in need of a good, strong, pounding?” Isabela pouted. Her other elbow came up to rest on Anders’ shoulder, a move that coincidentally showed her figure to its full advantage.

  
“Cover your ears, Mother,” Marian advised.

“No,” Anders answered Isabela, as Leandra covered her smile instead. “Sometimes they’re flabby. And they _do_ bite. All of them, all of them bite. Avoid him, Hawke!” This was called down to her as she walked away, preparing to go back into the kitchen.

“You say ‘bite’ as if it’s a bad thing,” Isabela argued. “You also didn’t say anything about the rest.”

“I imagine they’re certainly very highly repressed,” Leandra commented. Marian made a show of covering her ears and hiding her face so she didn’t have to hear the rest.

Anders just shook his head at their antics, apparently too mellow today to take real offense. “This is serious, Hawke,” he said, earning himself a growl. “He’s not going to just go away. Templars aren’t used to the word ‘no’. And did you know that your younger sister is running around up here without any pants?”

“Bethany!” Marian bellowed. Isabela waggled her eyebrows, which would have been hilarious if it wasn’t her _little sister_ running around _without pants_. No wonder Fenris was hesitating down here; he was probably waiting until it was safe to go back up.

“It’s not my fault!” came the answering cry. “I can’t find my things, Merrill moved them! Why did you _do_ that, Merrill?”

“I’m so sorry, _lethallan_! I didn’t know what they were, I thought they were cleaning rags! I’ll help you find them, I promise!”

Marian threw her hands up at the chaos. “I’m going back to the kitchen,” she announced. Leandra descended the stairs gracefully. “If any more Templars come, feel free to give them Anders or tell them I’m not home.” Anders yelped _hey!_ , and then again as Isabela smacked his arse. “And please stop spreading rumors about me, Mother, it’s not very nice.”

Leandra kissed her cheek and tightened the laces on her shirt, as if to shield her from prying eyes. “Thank you for looking out for your sister,” was all she said. Her voice was serene, but her eyes were still troubled. “And be careful in that pantry. I think I heard something crawling around in it earlier.”

 _“Great,_ _”_ Marian muttered. She passed under the landing, ignoring Isabela’s catcall, and went back to her task. As if she didn’t have enough problems already!


End file.
